


Call the Fashion Police

by BadBadBucky



Category: The Mighty Boosh (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, Fluff and Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-14
Updated: 2020-05-14
Packaged: 2021-03-03 02:28:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,504
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24187417
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BadBadBucky/pseuds/BadBadBucky
Summary: After the owners of a high end fashion shop make fun of Vince's clothing designs and Howard, his slightly absent minded boyfriend, fails to notice for far too long, vince decides to get rid of all his clothes. Now Howard must defend his boyfriend's designs and unravel a fashion conspiracy.
Relationships: Howard Moon/Vince Noir
Comments: 8
Kudos: 17
Collections: Bringing Back the Boosh 2020 Fic Exchange





	Call the Fashion Police

**Author's Note:**

  * For [silentOrator](https://archiveofourown.org/users/silentOrator/gifts).



Vince was sitting upside down on the couch with his legs kicked over the back, eating raspberry bootlaces anti-gravity style and watching MTV when he heard someone come up the stairs. There was a creak as the mail slot opened and a piece of paper hit the floor. 

Vince sat up to see what it was. 

A flier. Bright pink. With glitter on it. And zebra print. 

Vince’s interest was piqued. He picked up the flier. 

DESIGNERS WANTED!

Well that sounded promising. 

***

Howard blamed it on that damn puzzle. If he hadn’t been so focused on the puzzle, things wouldn’t have gone so far. He would have noticed. And fixed it. Or at least Vince wouldn’t have had to go through it alone for so long. 

But the puzzle was a really good one. It was supposed to be the hardest puzzle on earth. It had all sorts of tricks and gimmicks. They attached the center piece to a flying beetle and so you had to be ready to catch it the moment you opened the box, otherwise it would fly away and you’d never finish it. The outside edge of the puzzle had to be done while blindfolded, otherwise it was too easy. There was a section where you had to carve the pieces yourself with provided cardboard and an exacto knife. 

In a way it was Vince’s fault, since he’d bought Howard the puzzle for his birthday. The puzzle had absolutely consumed him for weeks. So he missed all the hints. He missed all the signs. His little man, his love, was in pain and he didn’t even notice.

Well he had certainly noticed now. He may currently be in the running for the worst boyfriend of the year award, but he meant to put himself straight out of contention. He’d promised himself when he and Vince started dating that he would do his absolute damndest to make his little man happy every day. But from the looks of it, Vince had not been happy in quite some time.

That morning Howard had been working on the puzzle. He was nearing the end and was in a near fever pitch. He’d been working on the section where the pieces were electrified, and if you put one in the wrong space it gave you a jolt, since 5am. Vince finally came out of their room. He pressed a kiss to the crown of Howard’s head then disappeared into the restroom. 

Usually it took Vince 2 or 3 hours to get ready. An hour and a half if he was really rushed and he did  _ not  _ like to be rushed. But not ten minutes after rising from bed he was heading out the door. For a moment Howard thought Vince was going out still in his pyjamas, that he was sleepwalking. But no, Vince was fully awake. He was just wearing-

“A hoodie. You’re wearing a-why are you? You’re wearing a hoodie, Vince.”

Vince cocked his head to the side and stared at him like he was thick. “Yes?”

“Why are you wearing a hoodie?”

“Because walking around naked is against the flatmate bylaws you made me sign. Even though it would have been entirely for your benefit.”

He crept up behind Howard one the couch and rubbed his hands over Howard’s chest. But Howard would not be deterred. Vince had never worn a hoodie. Not one day in his life. He’d once said that hoodies were to fashion, what jazz was to music. Then he’d said that he even liked  _ Howard’s  _ clothes better than he liked hoodies because at least Howard’s clothes were ugly on purpose. Then he’d made Howard promise to never wear a hoodie. And the standard pinky promise hadn’t been enough, he’d crossed his heart and hoped to die. Stick a needle in his eye. And here was Vince, sticking the needle in his own eye. 

“What’s wrong little man?”

“Nothing. I told you I was fine.”

When? They hadn’t discussed this. Howard would remember. But would he? Did he remember anything from the last 3 weeks other than the puzzle? When was the last time he’d changed his clothes? Or showered? Or eaten?

He vaguely remembered Vince chivying him off to take a shower a few days ago. Then Vince had decided to join him, perhaps feeling a bit lonely at being a puzzle widow, or maybe something else was on his mind. At first Howard had enjoyed the shower. Vince had made him laugh when he had to stand on his tiptoes to wash Howard’s hair. But while standing under the water he had cracked a part of the puzzle that had been giving him fits and he dashed out, shampoo still in his hair, to slot in the troublesome piece, leaving Vince standing in the shower alone. 

Oh he’d messed up. He’d really messed up. 

Vince was edging toward the door. 

“Vince. Wait a moment.”

“I’m runnin’ late. I gotta go,” Vince said. 

Howard stood up. “Please.”

Vince smiled indulgently. “Fine Buffalo Man. Just for you.”

Howard gestured toward the kitchen table. It was piled with dishes. As was the sink. Howard was the only one who did the dishes and he had been a bit preoccupied. 

Vince sighed and sat down.. And finally Howard was able to tear his eyes away from the offending hoodie to the rest of Vince’s “ensemble”. Tracks pants. And...trainers. And he’d been planning to  _ go out  _ that way. Vince who liked to change clothes on the hour. Who held events to debut his outfits, Howard’s birthday a couple years before case in point. 

“Will you tell me what’s going on?” Howard said as he sat down. 

“There’s nothin’ to tell,” Vince said. 

Howard reached across the table and grabbed Vince’s hand. He’d gotten very good at looking right into Vince’s eyes. “I know you a little better than that.”

Vince forced a laugh that wouldn’t fool anyone. And especially not the man who’d known him since he was 6. “It’s stupid. I shouldn’t even be upset. I’m being stupid.”

Howard didn’t say anything. It was a trick he’d learned from some old police program. Just keep your mouth shut and eventually the other guy would spill his guts. It had taken Howard a lot of practice to keep his mouth shut. He had finally realized how little he’d listened to Vince when they were younger. How often he’d ask Vince a question then not wait for him to answer. Or interrupt Vince when he tried to tell him something. Now he knew to stay quiet. Sometimes it took Vince a little longer to explain things, but it was always worth it. 

“You’re gonna think it’s so stupid.” 

“Try me.”

Vince nodded. Then he broke Howard’s heart by slowly nudging a cup of cold tea out of Howard’s reach, perhaps fearing a reenactment of the last time he had come to Howard with one of his “stupid” problems. The Lance Dior incident. 

“So, few weeks ago, that shop, the one Thomanda opened? Well someone stuck a flier through the mail slot. It said they were looking for up and coming designers. That if they liked your clothes they’d sell them in the shop.” 

Thomanda was the collective name of the owner/operators of a burgeoning fashion empire. Individually they were Thomas and Amanda but they had not been known individually for 8 years. They lived their lives in unison, they did everything as one. They spoke in unison, they moved in unison, there was talk that they were looking into an experimental surgery to cut their brains in two so that they could swap halves. They were ruthless and brilliant and would undoubtedly be very rich someday. And the only reason Howard knew any of this was because Vince absolutely idolized them. Though Howard wasn’t exactly sure why. They weren’t designers in their own right, they just designated what was cool and what was not. Seemed to Howard they just sponged off the creativity of others. But Vince said their celebrity stylings were legendary. They had popularized living furs which doubled as pets, they had discovered Jean Claude Jacquettie, and they’d brought back the Jacobian Ruff which everyone had said was impossible. 

Vince had been over the moon when they opened a storefront so close by. Howard sort of remembered the store. It had some ridiculous name like Oops! Or MmKay? Vince had dragged him to the opening as his date. All of the clothes were absolutely preposterous. And not in the charming way that Vince’s clothes were. But Vince hadn’t shut up about it for days afterward. It would do amazing things for Vince’s career if they sold his clothes there.

Vince had been trying to get a fashion career going for the last couple years. After the Electro Circus Incident (sometimes it seemed that their lives were just a neverending succession of incidences) he’d moved on from his frontman dreams and decided to focus on being a fashion designer instead. He’d made his own clothes since he was 15 so it wasn’t hard to start making them for other people too. Naboo even let him sell the clothes in Nabootique. 

“Are they not selling well?” Howard asked. “Because it just takes time. Someone will see them and-” He cut himself off when he saw the baffled look on Vince’s face. 

He’d never imagined that-

“They didn’t take them,” Vince said. “They didn’t want them.”

That couldn’t be right. Everyone loved Vince’s designs. They were extremely popular at the Nabootique. It simply made no sense.

“But we constantly sell out. All the little trendies buy up your clothes as soon as we set them out.”

Vince barked a short humorless laugh. “Turns out it was just Leroy comin’ in. Wearing different wigs and buying everything up.”

“Vince, I’m so sorry.” 

Vince propped up one corner of his mouth, attempting a smile, and failing miserably.

“It’s fine. Least I’m not kidding myself anymore.”

“What?” 

***

It was very simple. Everyone was just being nice. He had no talent. And everyone had been taking pity on poor stupid Vince for years. Pretending to like his stupid costumes because they just didn’t dare to hurt “sweet little Vincey’s feelings”. Naboo letting him sell his ugly clothes. Leroy buying them up so he didn’t feel bad. Howard telling him he liked his designs. All just being nice. 

He knew he should feel grateful. That he had friends who were kind enough to go to all this trouble to protect him. Spare his feelings. But it made him wonder what else they’d been lying to him about. When he was younger he’d been quite naive. Maybe he had accidentally joined several cults due to their well skilled interior decorating, maybe he had sent some of Howard’s money to a Nigerian Prince, maybe he had signed up for that pyramid scheme, but he wasn’t a total idiot. But apparently he was. Because he’d thought his clothes were  _ good.  _ He’d really thought they were good. Stupid him. 

“At least I’m not kidding myself anymore,” Vince repeated. “Thought I was good. Turns out I’m not. I know that now. So I can move on.”

“Move on?” Howard said blankly.

“Yeah. You know. Find something I’m actually good at. Something I can do without making an utter tit of myself.” 

“Vince. Just because one shop didn’t like your clothes-”

“They laughed,” Vince said shortly. “And it weren’t just some shop. It was Thomanda.” Slowly and haltingly he told Howard the rest of the story. 

Thomanda had yanked his clothes out of the garment bag one at a time. Laughing harder with each one. They’d mocked the colors, the construction, and the design, always speaking in unison. They told him to go back to home ec class. That maybe his clothes would have been stylish in 1999 when everything was “a bit shit.” 

At first he’d been angry. He’d defended his clothes. He wasn’t just some jerkoff in from off the street. He knew what he was doing. Maybe he wasn’t Thomanda, but he was Vince Noir, Former Rock N Roll Star. But the laughter had just kept coming. Then they said the mirror ball suits looked like what would be hanging from the ceiling at a 30 year old’s bar mitzvah his sugar daddy threw for him. And Vince lost his fierce gaze. Then they said the red satin blouse would have suited a cougar on the prowl after she dropped her youngest kid off at university. And he folded in on himself. They said that from a legal standpoint they really should call the fashion police on him but that they wouldn’t because he seemed like a “nice kid.” Even Vince’s hair seemed to wilt. 

Then they’d come around from behind the counter, patted him sympathetically on the shoulder and told him they were just trying to do him a favor. And that was when Vince had started to cry. And then he’d been so embarrassed that he’d run out the door without his designs and he was too scared to go back and get them. That had been a week and a half ago.

“I’m so sorry little man,” Howard said. 

“‘S okay,” Vince said. “Least I won’t waste anymore time on it right? I already found someone who wants to buy my sewing machines.”

Vince had two sewing machines. A very nice expensive one Bryan had bought him as a gift when he’d graduated with a BTEC National in fashion design and his first sewing machine gifted to him by the woman who constructed all of Bryan’s stage clothes and had taught him to sew as a nipper. 

“Then I’ll just donate the rest.”

“What do you mean, the rest?” Howard asked.

***

Things were worse than he’d ever imagined. The only thing Vince loved more than those sewing machines was his hairdryer with Howard himself being a distant third. And with the way he’d been behaving he might deserve to move down to fourth or fifth on the list after the Nicky Clark Straighteners and Bollo. No one told you how hard it was to be a good boyfriend. 

“I’m getting rid of all my clothes.”

“That seems a bit...drastic.”

“They just make me sad. I’m haulin’ them off tomorrow. Now I really gotta go. I’ll see ya later alright?”

He stood up, kissed Howard on the forehead and walked out of the flat. 

Howard shot to his feet. Ready to spring into action and fix this for Vince. But he had no idea where to start so he sank back down. Feeling like a tit. He had to find some way to convince Vince that just because this store didn’t like his designs didn’t mean he didn’t have any talent. But how in the blazes was he supposed to do that before tomorrow? 

First things first he was going to go to this shop, give them a piece of his mind, and retrieve the clothes Vince had left. No one was cruel to Howard Moon’s boyfriend and got away with it. No sir. He’d come at them like a northern oak, relentless. They’d rue the day they ever turned down Vince Noir. Yes sir. The one man Birnam Wood was marching. 

He was supposed to be opening up the shop but he didn’t give a toss. Some things were more important. He marched down the street, drawing stares as he had not bothered to comb his hair, nor change out of his dressing gown, before leaving the flat. Generally he’d be red with embarrassment but he was on a mission. Howard Moon, Man of Action.

Finally he reached the shop with it’s noncy microscopic sign that you would only know to look for if you were in their smarmy little club. The shop was called Hmmmm? And the smug self-satisfaction just poured off it in waves. He had no idea why Vince would want his clothes sold there. The atmosphere would warp his beautiful designs into something smirking and ironic. Howard hated the very thought. 

He pulled on the door handle and found it locked. He knocked on it. Then jumped backwards when a slot in the middle of the door slid open, revealing a pair of large black eyes surrounded by white eyeliner, alien in their beauty.

A thick slavic accent, “Password?”

“You see, I’m not here to shop. I just need to speak with Thomanda.” 

“Password?”

“I’m here to pick up my boyfriend’s clothes? He left them here. I have no interest in your wares.”

“Password?”

Howard had no idea, so he decided to just guess.

“Thomanda Forever.”

“No.”

“No returns.”

“No.”

“Little Monty Freshlegs.”

“No.”

“Sharkfender.”

“No.”

“Satsuma Loom.”

“No.”

“Richard Of York Gave Battle In Vain.”

“No.”

“Rikikikikikikikikikikikikikikikiki.”

“No.”

Howard sang a perfectly pitched A note.

“No.” 

“Two houses both alike in dignity. In fair Verona where we lay our scene.”

“No.”

“No white after labor day.”

“No. And you have two more guesses.”

“Whoa there. You didn’t specify how many guesses I get. I’ll sit here and guess all day. I’ve got nowhere else to be.” Howard crossed his arms.

Whoever was behind the door did not respond. 

So Howard started guessing again. “Coulrophobia. Wombat. Crested Marmont. Queen Victoria. Silly silly Sammy. Password1234. 0000. 0001. 0002. 0003. 0004. 00-”

“Christ! Fine.” The figure behind the door said then opened the door.

Howard shoved past them and entered the store. 

***

The mean old vulture of a teacher slapped Vince’s fingers with a ruler when he dared to look down while he was typing.

When Vince had first come up with the idea to try different classes to find out what he was actually good at he’d wanted to sign up for the Fuzzy Feelings Typing Class for Ultra Beginners. But he’d missed the deadline to sign up. If only Thomanda had crushed his dreams a few days earlier. But they hadn’t and so he was forced to sign up for the next typing class available. Madame Stravoda’s Typing Gotterdammerung. He didn’t know what Got-grotter-the last word meant but it had also said typing, so he’d pulled the tab off the flier and signed up. Not realizing he was signing up for typing hell. If you looked down at your fingers she would whack them. One typo and you had to start completely over. No spell check. No mercy. If you tried to skip class or quit she would send her Grammar Nazi’s to roust you from bed and drag you screaming back to the dank dripping basement where the classes were held. 

Now that he had been taking the class for a week he did not have high hopes that typing was what he was secretly good at. But he was too scared to quit. 

He thought he might try an estate agent course next. But he was auditing the class first this next time. He had to make sure Madame Stavoda didn’t have a twin sister in the real estate business. 

Madame Stovoda was across the room terrorizing another student so Vince let his eye slide down to his fingers, just for a moment, just to make sure he was hitting the J. Madame’s ruler slammed down on his fingers. Vince jerked backwards in shock, almost falling out of his chair. 

“Jesus! Are you a vampire? Can you teleport? You scared the shit outta me!” 

“Mr. Noir, I’ll not have that language in my class,” Madame said. She had a thick german accent and her voice was very low. 

“Sorry.” 

Vince went back to typing. He jumped again when she whacked the paper rolled into the typewriter.

“Typo Mr. Noir. Start over. One more error today and I shall put you on the Electric Typewriter.”

The rest of the class gasped. 

Vince grinned. “That actually sounds quite a lot easier than these old manual typewriters. I mean this thing has got to be at least 100 years old.”

“No you idiot. It’s not an electric typewriter. It is the Electric Typewriter.”

“...You just said the same thing twice.”

“The  _ Electric. Typewriter. _ ”

Vince looked up at her questioningly. Madame sighed. The stupid ones were the hardest to break. 

“It’s wired with electricity. If you make a typo you are electrocuted.”

“Oh.”

“Anything else to say?” 

“No?”

“Good. Start over.”

***

Howard marched across the sales floor of Hmmmm? And headed straight for the front counter the dual berks called home. They were dressed in identical black leather jumpsuits with a severe fade haircut and blue eyeshadow. Even Howard could tell they were cool. But he gave less than two shits how cool they were. 

“Thomanda yeah?” He said.

“What do you want?” Thomanda said in a monotone, their speaking in unison shtick clearly hadn’t graduated to tonal variances yet. 

“I’m here for Vince Noir’s clothes. He left them here when he came in.”

Thomanda looked at each other and shrugged. 

“Raven black hair.”

They shook their heads.

“Large eyes of a bushbaby?” 

This also did not seem to ring any bells.

“More beautiful on his worst day than you pair a dossbags could ever dream of being?”

They still looked uncertain. Howard sighed. “...looks like a pointy witch?”

“Oooooh, the sad one,” they said. 

Howard gritted his teeth so as to better hold his tongue. “Yeah. The sad one.”

“We threw them away.”

“You did what?”

“Well he left them with us and they were awful. What were we supposed to do?”

“Hold onto them until he comes back.”

“What if they start to spread?” Thomanda asked. 

“Donate them.”

“Haven’t the poor got enough to deal with?”

“Shove em up your arse then.”

Thomanda raised their hands to their mouths and giggled. 

“Listen you doublemint pricks, you made the biggest mistake a’ your lives passin’ over Vince Noir. Yes sir. You’ll regret it to your dyin’ day. He is the finest cotton pickin’ fashion designer in Dalston and probably the world.”

Thomanda looked distinctly unimpressed. 

“He has more talent in one eyelash than you’ve got in both bodies. You wouldn’t know talent if it bit you on your misshapen arses. And what kinda name is Hmmmm? For a store anyway? Why not call it ‘Ooooooo’ or ‘Go Fuck Yourselves’.” 

With that Howard turned on his heel to head back toward the entrance. He was going to get Vince’s clothes back if he had to check in every skip in London. He was still a binman at heart. He could do it. But then he spotted what looked an awful lot like one of Vince’s designs on a mannequin. He paused to look at it a bit harder but then a pair of rough hands grabbed him. He never got a good look at who the hands belonged to. All he knew was that they were big and were able to easily throw him out of the shop. 

Something was afoot. Something very strange. And he was going to get to the bottom of it. 

***

Vince rose from his seat. “So this has been real great and all, but I gotta go to work. So I’ll see you lot Monday. Alright?”

He started to walk toward the door, but the Madame snapped her fingers and two burly men grabbed him and frog marched him back to his typewriter. Where had they even come from?

“You will complete the assignment.”

“Actually, my boyfriend is waiting for me so…” Vince tried to rise but then men shoved down on his shoulders. Forcing him to sit. 

“Finish the assignment.” 

***

Howard was quite fond of detective novels. Though he never did correctly guess the ending; he always thought his guess made more sense both narratively and in terms of the clues. He had written several mystery writers to that effect, suggesting that perhaps a rewrite with a more appropriate ending was in order, but they mostly responded with variations of “get stuffed”, which Howard thought was fairly unimaginative for a group of professional writers. Point being, he was a natural sleuth. And he was going to figure out just what was going on here. 

He snuck around to the back of the building. If he remembered the refuse pickup schedule for this area, and he did, then Vince’s clothes should still be in the skip,  _ if  _ they’d actually been thrown away as Thomanda claimed. Which Howard seriously doubted. 

He dug through several dumpsters and Vince’s clothes were nowhere to be found. Just as he suspected. A theory was forming. But he couldn’t jump to conclusions just yet. 

Behind him he heard the back door opening. Howard ducked behind a dumpster. Someone backed up a car to the back door. The car door slammed and whoever it was popped the boot.

“I don’ feel good abou’ is,” the driver said. And Howard recognized this voice. 

“You’re almost done now. As long as you keep your mouth shut he’ll never have to know what you did.”

“This is the last of the stuff. He’s all sold out again. I gotta go. Start my shift at the ice rink.” 

Yes. Howard knew that voice. He knew it. But he couldn’t believe it. Leroy. 

As Howard rode the metro he boiled with rage. Leroy. Vince’s best mate after Howard. Buying up Vince’s clothes. Vince had thought he was just being nice. Really he’d been sneaking around and helping the people who’d crushed all of Vince’s dreams. 

Leroy always had 8 or 9 jobs at a time, and he had since they were in primary school. He worked at the ice rink, the copy center, and Dixon’s. He sold cutlery, beauty supplies, and weed. He did some clowning on the side. And some creepy clowning on the side side. Howard wasn’t entirely sure when he slept because when he wasn’t working he was out partying with Vince. And apparently now one of his many jobs was backstabbing Vince. 

Finally Howard arrived at the ice rink. He burst through the doors and made a beeline for the snack stand, Leroy’s usual post. But he wasn’t there. He was driving the zamboni, as he did at the beginning of every shift. Howard stalked toward the entrance to the ice. Another employee tried to stop him.

“Oi mate! Not while the zamboni’s out!!” 

Howard shoved the employee out of the way. He would not be stopped. He stepped out on the ice and pointed at Leroy. 

“You!” He bellowed.

Leroy turned and looked at him and when he identified who it was he said “Oh shit!” and cranked the zamboni up to the next gear. 

Howard staggered after him. Leroy tried to make the zamboni go even faster, but it was ancient and no match for Howard’s powerful northern pins. 

Leroy could see he was not long for this world. He drove toward the back wall where there was an intercom box. He made it and screamed into the intercom. “Free skate! Everyone back on the ice!”

Children and teens and even the odd adult flooded onto the ice. Howard reached the zamboni but Leroy was already gone, sliding away from him. Howard chased after him. Tossing aside any child unlucky enough to get in his way. Leroy hopped over the rail. Howard followed him but his feet got tangled and he fell in a heap on the cheap fluorescent carpet. Several kids loomed over him while he “collected his thoughts” as he always called it when he’d fallen and needed a moment. Then he remembered what he was here for and sat up with a jolt. The children ran away screaming. 

Howard glanced up at a fisheye mirror in the snack stand and saw that Leroy was hiding behind the counter. So he hopped over it and landed right in front of Leroy.

Leroy flashed his best charming grifter smile. “Alright Howard?”

With a snarl Howard grabbed Leroy by the front of his shirt and dragged him to his feet. 

“I’ve heard some really interesting stuff today Leroy.” 

“Oh yeah, some uh fun facts?”

“Fun’s not the word I’d use.”

“Look, Howard-”

Howard grabbed a devil dog from the warmer and jammed it into Leroy’s mouth.

“No. I’m talking right now. You’re listening. Soon. You’ll talk and I’ll listen. But not yet.” 

Leroy nodded. 

“Not so fun fact number 1-you’ve been dressing up in different wigs and buying up all of Vince’s clothes from the shop. Not so fun fact number 2-you’ve been working with those Thomanda pricks. Not so fun fact number 3-you’re a backstabbing, lying, shitbox.”

Leroy didn’t say anything. Howard ripped the devil dog out of Leroy’s mouth. “Speak!”

“You got me! Alright? You got me,” Leroy said. He held his hands up in supplication.

Howard was a bit taken aback. He’d been prepared to dunk Leroy’s head in the slushpuppy tank. He’d been considering nacho cheese as an improvised torture device. But apparently none of that would be necessary. 

“What exactly is going on Leroy?”

“So I’d come up wit a new side business yeah? All dem trendies like Vince’s clothes, so I buy em up, sell em for more. Everybotty win yeah? Nobotty gettin’ hurt.”

“Except Vince! Vince is hurt! He’s getting rid of all of his clothes!”

“What, all a’ them?” There was an industrious glint in Leroy’s eye that Howard did not care for. 

“Which is a bad thing,” Howard said. “Right?”

Leroy was staring into the middle distance. The way he did anytime he sensed money to be made. Howard shook him like an angry babysitter caught on nannycam. 

“Right?”

“Right. Yeah. Course. It’s awful.”

“It’s more than awful you chavvy titbox.”

“I know that alright?. I know he likes his clothes.”

“He had a funeral for a shirt that shrank in the wash. Have you ever had to dig a grave for a t-shirt Leroy? We were in the park. People were staring. He still goes to visit it. He made a grave marker out of ice lolly sticks and glitter glue. He doesn’t just like his clothes. He loves his clothes. Loves them. So just what in the fuck have you been doing?” 

“What I been doin’? What you been doin’ mate?” Leroy said. “I’m ‘is friend. You’re his  _ boyfriend.  _ He been absolutely gutted for a week and a half. He’s been tellin’  _ me  _ all about it. Why are you just coming to see me now? Where you been?”

Leroy was right of course. Howard had been nowhere to be found. He’d let Vince down. Again. There had been a time when Howard was quite good at making Vince feel better. He’d always had just the right word. Or he’d produce some sweets or a sticker he’d come into possession of and had been waiting for the right time to deploy. Then they got older. And Howard just took Vince as a matter of course. He was younger. Looked up to Howard both literally and figuratively. Howard didn’t really have to do anything special to keep Vince around. And that was the way it was for a long time.Things didn’t really start to fall apart until they started working in the shop. 

It was then that Howard noticed that Vince didn’t really listen to him anymore. That he was spending quite a bit more time with Leroy and all the little trendies. That he’d started rolling his eyes when Howard spoke. Laughing at him instead of laughing with him. Then there was the embarrassment of his birthday. The kiss. Which he’d completely blown. Walked it back all in the hopes of landing some bird he barely knew and cared about even less. He thought that would be it. His only chance. Gone. So he went to Denmark. Knowing all the while that he would come back. Maybe hoping things would be better when he got back. And when he did return Vince was as clingy as he’d ever been when they were kids. And Howard thought it was what he wanted. For Vince to hang on his every word and just stand behind him looking impressed the way he always used to. 

But he didn’t want that. Not anymore. Vince was worth more than that. So he started actually listening to Vince instead of cutting him off. When they were in a jam they would sometimes implement Vince’s ideas, which really did not have a higher success rate than Howard’s but added a sense of whimsy to the horror. And he started giving Vince compliments here and there, just because he liked to see him smile. 

Then one night Vince came home from the club. And he was giggling and happy. And Howard was still up watching a docuseries about the seedy underbelly of cocktail umbrella manufacturing. Vince flopped on top of Howard and started kissing him. Howard was so surprised that he almost stood up and dumped Vince to the floor, but instinct took over and he caught Vince before he dropped. Which caused Vince to kiss him even harder. Eventually Howard put Vince to bed, back when they still had separate rooms, but he himself did not go to sleep. 

He’d puzzled over the kiss for hours. Unsure what it meant. Then the next morning Vince kissed him while he was making breakfast. And again when he left to go shopping. And when he came back. This went on for several more weeks and Howard was more confused than ever. Finally he’d asked Vince if he’d like to go on a date. 

“Why you bein’ so formal?” Vince had asked.

“Because this is our first date. I thought some formality would-”

Vince burst out laughing. 

“And what is so funny?”

“You. You make me laugh.”

“How dare you laugh at me. I am trying to show my heart to you and-”

“We been datin’ for a month Howard. Where you been?” 

“We have?”

“Yeah. What you think all the kissin’ was about?”

“I was intent on finding that out sir.”

“Yeah? And what’s your conclusion, Inspector Moon?”

“That we’ve been dating about a month.”

“Well done.” Vince came forward and kissed him. “You’re still takin’ me somewhere nice though. Right? Seein’ how it’s our first date an’ all.”

That had been about a year and a half ago. And oh how easily he’d fallen back into his old ways. Taking Vince as a matter of course. As a right instead of a privilege. And one that would just stand around waiting for him at that. And Vince wasn't even mad at him. Which almost made it worse. Like Vince had taught himself not to expect much. 

Howard let go of Leroy. He buried his face in his hands. Inspector Moon was an abject failure as a boyfriend. 

***

Vince’s hands were starting to cramp. He’d been typing for hours. This was so useless. Why on earth did he think he’d be good at typing? He couldn’t even spell. He was just as bad at this as he was at everything else. Sometimes he felt like the only thing he was good at was being Howard’s boyfriend, and he didn’t seem to even be good at that anymore, since Howard had been basically living on another planet for near a month. If he was better at being a boyfriend then he would either keep Howard from being distracted or he’d be much cooler about it and just let Howard have his fun. Instead he just bitched to Leroy for hours at a time. 

He knew he should be focusing on his typing. The Electric Typewriter awaited if he made even one mistake. But the conversation with Howard this morning had sent his brain all aflutter again. He’d made up his mind. He was done with fashion. And if he was no good at fashion it probably meant he didn’t have a good understanding of color. Which probably also meant he wasn’t good at art either. The Charlie books had gone nowhere, so writing was out. He’d already proven rather effectively that he wasn’t meant to be a frontman. Hadn’t Bryan told him he wasn’t frontman material? Was Bryan the only person who had been honest with him his entire life? Maybe he only thought things came easily to him but in actuality he was just so rubbish that people felt bad for him. 

He knew he was thick, but it had been so long since he’d gotten it this wrong. The world felt off kilter. Something Vince had thought fundamental to his very being was wrong. Was gone. Had never actually been there. 

What else was he wrong about? Did all his mates only hang out with him because they felt sorry for him? Was Howard just pretending to like him? 

At this thought his fingers skittered across the keys and in horror he saw that he had a typo.

“Oh dear, Mr. Noir. Oh dear.” 

He could hear the smile in Madame Strovada’s voice. 

***

Leroy spilled his guts. How he’d been selling clothes on the black fashion market. How Thomanda had found out and threatened to expose what he was doing. They had decided they were going to produce their own line of Vince Noir knockoffs. Leroy would buy all of Vince’s designs and bring them to Thomanda. But the whole enterprise nearly went under when Vince showed up looking to sell his clothes. So they’d torn him to shreds so that he would never come back.

“Didn’t they think he might stop designing?”

“They said they didn’t care anymore. They say they have a partner.” 

Howard wondered who this mysterious partner might be. 

“And how did they find out about you? Or Vince for that matter?”

Leroy shrugged.

Inspector Moon found that there were still pieces missing from this puzzle. 

“I’m going to sort this mess out. Then you’re going to tell Vince what exactly has been going on.”

Leroy nodded miserably. Though perhaps happy to finally be free. “Do you think he’ll forgive me?”

“I don’t know Leroy, probably. Vince is a pretty forgiving guy. Probably more forgiving than either of us deserve. 

Howard’s travel card was certainly getting a workout this fair morn. Back to Hmmmm?

“Password?”

“0006, 0007, 0008.”

“You can stand there all day, you aren’t getting in. Orders from the boss. They also had a message for you. Leave it alone. Or suffer the consequences. Now get out of here before I call the fashion police.” Then the slot in the door slammed closed. 

Shit. 

Back to the flat. Was Vince still out? Howard had wanted to tell him the game was afoot. Give him what he’d found out so far, though leaving Leroy out of it until Leroy had a chance to talk to him, cheer him up a bit. Maybe get him to put off his decision for a few days. Until they could investigate a bit more. Vince could have been the Watson to his Sherlock Holmes. Maybe he’d ring him. 

Howard pulled out his mobile. There were only 4 numbers programmed into it. Vince’s. Naboo’s. Bollo’s (fake). And the crossword puzzle error reporting line (also fake). 

It rang several times but no answer.

***

Vince’s hair was starting to stand on end from the electricity. It was gettin’ well frizzy. And the electric shocks weren’t exactly a walk in the park either. It was like a really shitty version of Operation. 

He was almost done with the assignment. Few more words then he’d be d-

Then his mobile went off. And once again he’d forgotten to turn the ringer back down after he left the club so it was still on its glass shattering highest setting. And it startled him and his fingers slipped. And there, at the bottom of the page. Was a typo.

***

“Naboo? Naboo? Naboo? Naboolio? Naboo?” Howard continuously knocked on Naboo’s door.

Finally Naboo cracked the door. “What you want ballbag?” He was trying to block whatever was going on in his room with his body, but Howard had a bit of a height advantage on him and was easily able to see into the room.

In the center of the room was a swirling black hole. Bollo desperately held onto the canopy over the bed to avoid getting sucked toward its center. 

Howard promptly forgot what he was doing as he looked into the abyss and the abyss looked back. Naboo snapped his fingers in front of Howard’s eyes. No reaction. He sighed, turned around and waved his arms, instantly dispersing the black hole. Bollo dropped to the ground in a heap. 

“Come on, I ain’t got all day,” Naboo said.

“What? Oh right. Yes. It’s Vince,” Howard said.

Bollo, still a bit unsteady from his near spaghettification experience lunged for Howard. “What you do to Vince?”

“Nothing!” Howard squawked. He dodged out of Bollo’s way and Bollo missed him completely, taking out a lamp instead. 

“Okay well, I didn’t entirely help matters.”

Bollo once again struggled to his feet. This time he did manage to catch Howard. He pinned him to the wall. Then slid him upwards, lifting him by the lapels of his dressing gown, which he had still not removed despite it being mid-afternoon. 

Naboo marched over and tried to get in his face. Though due to Howard’s height, in conjunction with Bollo holding him several feet off the ground, made it so that he more got in Howard’s crotch. 

“Can you lower ‘im a bit Bollo? I wanna talk to the dick on top his neck, not the one next to his balls.”

Bollo lowered Howard so he was on his knees. Naboo loomed over him. 

“Wot’s goin’ on with Vince?” Naboo asked. 

Howard was having a bit of a time keeping it together. Usually he had Vince to act as a buffer. He and Naboo were alright on their own, but throw Bollo in the mix and he was the perpetual punching bag. 

“Vince is-and then he-but now-and he said he’s going to-but-and-”

“Christy Howard. Get yourself under control.” 

Howard nodded, but his next attempt at telling them what was going on was not much more successful. 

Naboo disappeared back into his room. Then came back holding a jar with arcane symbols etched into the glass. He placed the mouth of the jar on Howard’s forehead and murmured an incantation. Howard felt an itching tug in the center of his brain. When Naboo removed the jar from his forehead it was full of what looked to be beige wads of chewing gum that all seemed to resemble Howard in a very disconcerting way. 

“What did you do?”

“You got a real annoyin’ voice. Like a whiny albatross. So I made copies of your memories. Bollo and I can absorb them and see everything that happened.” 

Naboo jerked his head and Bollo let go of Howard and the three of them went into Naboo’s room. Naboo dumped Howard’s memories into a mortar and started grinding them with the pestle. Disconcertingly, the odd little lumps screamed in tiny voices.

Naboo saw the look of horror on Howard’s face. “Ignore that.” 

“How far back do these memories go?”

“Week or so.”

Howard sagged in relief. Naboo would kill him if he was forced to witness Howard and Vince fooling around. From Howard’s POV no less. But he and Vince hadn’t had sex in three weeks. Jesus, he and Vince hadn’t had sex in three weeks. He really was a terrible boyfriend. 

Naboo finished grinding up the memories and poured the fine powder onto a mirror. He picked up a razor blade and started chopping it ever finer. Then he divided the memory powder into two thick lines. 

“What, are you going to snort my memories?” Howard said. 

“It’s the most efficient way,” Naboo said. “Bollo?”

Bollo produced a gold coke straw and snorted the first line. “Me thought Harold’s life sad and boring from outside. From inside even worse.”

Howard glared at him. “Thanks.”

There was a bit of powder caked around Bollo’s furry black nostril. Howard decided not to mention it. 

Naboo snorted the other rail. He rolled his eyes, twisting his hands around, sinking into Howard’s headspace. He murmured commentary, for whose benefit Howard was unsure.

“Ooookay. Howard’s a ballbag. Howard’s a ballbag. No surprise there. Ugh. I did not need to see that.”

Howard grimaced. He’d forgotten about the shower episode. 

But then.

Naboo snapped back to consciousness. “Oh. This ain’t good.”

“Yes-he’s crushed and-”

“It ain’t that. His clothes are the best selling items in the shop. It’s basically the only fing keepin’ the place open.”

“Wrong takeaway Naboo. He thinks everyone has been lying to him. That you were just letting him sell his clothes to be nice.”

“When have I ever done somethin’ just to be nice?”

“Don’t ask me. I’ve never seen it. I thought maybe he knew something I didn’t.”

Naboo lashed out cobra quick and jabbed Howard in the tit. 

Howard rubbed his chest. “Ow! What was that?”

“Scorpion pinch. You’ll be feelin’ that for days.”

“What’d you do that for?”

“A puzzle, Howard?” Naboo said.

“I know. I’m trying to fix it, aren’t I?” 

Howard needed to get back into Hmmmm? But they would see him coming from a mile away. He needed to wear a disguise. He needed to blend in. And after Vince, Bollo and Naboo were the coolest people he knew. 

“Can you help me sneak back in? I need proof of what they’ve been up to.” Howard asked. 

“Yeah. Bollo. Take him to Topshop. I got some calls to make.”

“I got a bad feeling about this.”

“What just me and Bollo on our own?”

Naboo narrowed his eyes. “I don’ got time to argue with ya. Vince needs us. Bollo. Take Howard to Topshop. Get him a proper disguise. I gotta stay here and make some phone calls. Call in some favors. Luckily I’ve got an in with the fashion police. We’ll meet down in the shop yeah?”

***

Vince had already accepted that he was never going to escape Madame Strovada. He’d discovered that some of the students had been here for years. He was fairly certain the guy in the corner, who he had thought was just well into retro, was the ghost of a student who had died in 1978 and still hadn’t been allowed to leave. 

He’d given up on typing the assignment and was just typing STUPID over and over again a la Jack Nicholson in the Shining. 

***

Howard wandered the racks of Topshop. Bollo had told him to just work on not looking like like “crab eyed rapist.” If the looks of the other patrons were anything to go off of, he was not succeeding. 

Then he spotted a shiny silver leather jacket that he knew Vince would love. He marched over to grab it. It would make a perfect “I’m Sorry” present. He flicked through the jackets and finally seized upon one in Vince’s size. But when he pulled it from the rack it wouldn’t come. He pulled on it again and it still wouldn’t come. He straightened up and looked over the top of the rack and saw a girl with several facial piercings and multicolored hair. She looked a lot tougher than him.

“Let go, or I’ll stab you up,” the girl said.

Howard drew himself up to his full height and stature. He loomed over her. “Not a chance.”

The girl pulled out a flick knife. In a panic Howard punched her in the face and shuffled toward the exit. He threw money at the cashier and ran out of the store. He hid around the corner, waiting to see if the girl or the police were after him. He then decided he felt rather exposed and disappeared to find a better hiding spot. Bollo found him inside a hedge. 

Bollo handed over the clothes he’d picked out. Howard had been partially concerned that Bollo’s desire to humiliate him would outweigh his concern for Vince. But Bollo had actually adhered to the plan and chosen trendy clothes that would obscure Howard’s identity. He’d bought a large black hat and a face covering that would not have looked out of place in a harem. Bollo had also found him some trousers, a black waistcoat, and a t-shirt for a band he’d never heard of. A large pair of sunglasses and hundreds of necklaces and bangles completed the look. 

Howard heard sirens. “We should get out of here.”

Upon their return, they could hear the arguing up in the flat all the way down in the shop. 

“What’s going on here?” Howard asked as he and Bollo entered the flat.

Saboo whirled on Howard dramatically, eager to have another character witness in his ever building case against Tony Harrison, who had attached suction cups to his tentacles and was hanging from the ceiling. 

“What is going on here is that Tony Harrison has once again proven his complete inability to complete even the simplest of tasks.” 

“I said I was sorry, didn’ I? I said I’d go back to the station n’ pick it up. You’re the one ‘oo won’ lend us the keys to ya carpet,” Tony whined.

“It’s a lease. I wouldn’t even let the one woman whom I loved drive it. It’s what drove us apart.”

“Sorry!” Howard yelled.

Naboo, Bollo, Saboo, and Tony all whipped their heads around to stare at him. Howard suddenly felt very small.

“Sorry,” Howard said, much quieter this time. “What’s all this got to do with us? Naboo. I thought you were calling the fashion police.”

“I did.”

“We are the fashion police,” Tony said. 

Saboo pulled out his badge, it had a Marc by Marc Jacobs for Jacobs by Marc Jacobs in conjunction with MARC label. 

“Pull mine out as well,” Tony said.

Saboo scowled and pulled out Tony’s badge as well. Then folded them both away. 

“So you two, you’re part of the fashion police force? I thought you were on the board of Shaman?”

“Can’t a man wear more than one hat?” Saboo demanded.

“We cited Johnny Five Hats for that last week.” Tony said. 

“I was speaking metaphorically. You cleft.”

“You should make it more clear then.” 

“It was clear to everyone else Tony.”

Howard tilted his head a bit, as if he didn’t quite agree with that statement. 

Saboo glared at him. “What.”

“It’s just, I mean, you are the fashion police. Maybe fashion based metaphors might be a bit confusing or at the very least...on the nose?”

Saboo turned to Naboo. “This is the one we’re supposed to be helping right?”

Naboo said, “It’s more for Vince.” 

“Back to the matter at hand. Tony has carelessly forgotten our sound equipment at the station. So all we have is this lavalier microphone. Which means, Howard, you’re going to have to wear a wire.” Saboo said. 

“What?!”

“It’s the only way. You go in there. Take a few pictures, then you get Thomanda to admit what they did. We come in and nab them.”

“Ok. Yes. That sounds like a good plan. I mean, what could go wrong?”

“If it comes to the crunch and they try to torture you to gain our identities, bite down on this,” Saboo stuck his fingers into Howard’s mouth and nestled a capsule in his cheek.

“What is ‘is?” Howard asked, careful not to bite down.

“Cyanide. We cannot have our identities falling into the wrong hands. We’ve all got one,” Tony said. He stuck out his tongue and an identical capsule sat on the tip.

Howard spat his capsule onto the floor. 

Saboo smiled at him. “Man of honor. I like that. Take this instead.” He produced a samurai sword. “If they try to take you, just fall onto it.”

He tried to poke the sword into Howard’s hands, but he refused to grasp it. 

“I think I’ll be alright. Thanks.”

Saboo squinted at him appraisingly. “Do you have any torture resistance training?”

“No. I mean they’re just fashion people.” Howard chuckled nervously. 

“Oh my word,” Tony groaned. “‘E’s not ready for the field.”

“Oh and you are, I suppose,” Saboo said.

“Undercover work is my specialty. No one can sink into the mind of a fashion criminal like I can. I’m a natural profiler.”

“You ever think the reason you’re so good is because you  _ are _ a fashion criminal?”

“And what’s that supposed to mean?” Tony asked. 

“That you don’t have any fashion sense and you got the job through nepotism. We all know Tommy the Torso is your uncle. And he got you jumped up the list.” 

“This is an outrage! I got here on my own merits!”

“You don’t even wear clothes Tony.”

“If you think fashion is about clothes, you’ve got a lot to learn and I can’t help you,” Tony said. 

“Sorry!” Howard yelled again. “But could we...move this along? My boyfriend is sort of having the worst week of his life. I’d like to fix it? Thanks.” 

All of them piled onto Saboo’s flying carpet. Once they were parked across the street from Hmmmm? Tony set to work rigging Howard up.

“Lose the trousers,” Tony said.

“Isn’t this a bit conspicuous?” Howard said. “I mean, we’re sort of exposed, shouldn’t you guys have a van or something?”

“Please. There’s an invisibility shield around the carpet. They can’t see anything,” Saboo said.

Howard nodded and took off his trousers. A woman walked down the street with her son. Howard ignored her, but then she let out a shriek and covered her son’s eyes as she stared directly at Howard.

Saboo looked a bit sheepish as he clicked his key fob. “Now there’s an invisibility shield.” 

Tony Harrison used his suction cups to pull himself up Howard’s leg. Howard did his best not to kick Tony across the street in revulsion. 

“Hol’ still, I gotta tape down the cord.”

“Wouldn’t it be a bit faster if you did it?” Howard said., turning to Saboo.

“I leave matters such as these to Tony. More his skill level.”

“I’ll not dignify that with a response,” Tony said.

“Well you sort of already have,” Saboo said. 

Naboo turned to Howard, “I can’t believe I’m sayin’ this but, Howard, are you sure? This seems sort of dangerous.”

“It’s fine Naboo. It’s for Vince.”

Tony let himself drop back down to the floor. “Alright, pull em back up.”

Howard pulled up his new trousers. Then put on the rest of his disguise. His face was entirely obscured and he looked quite hip. 

Saboo settled a hand on Howard’s shoulder. “Be careful out there. And if you run into trouble, we’ll be there in a flash.”

Howard nodded and stepped out of the van. Saboo stuck his head out, it looked like his head was floating, like some sort of cheap special effect.

“Remember. If they torture you-”

“Remove myself from the equation. I know.” Howard stared out at the horizon, or where he imagined the horizon might be if he wasn’t boxed in by buildings on all sides. “I know.”

Howard approached the door to Hmmmm? He knocked a couple times. Trying not to think of the microphone currently taped to his crotch. 

“Password?”

Howard cleared his throat. “Pastel Pastille.” 

The door opened and Howard stepped inside. 

He strolled between the racks. Casually pretending to consider different items of clothing. 

Howard snapped a photo of a jumpsuit that looked an awful lot like the one they’d worn to the gig where they were abducted by aliens in the middle of their encore. It still held the high water mark for most successful gig. He’d recognize that jumpsuit anywhere. 

A hand reached out and snatched his cameraphone. 

“Excuse me.” Howard said. He grabbed for the phone.

“I think you’ll find yourself excused, sir.” A deep voice responded. 

Howard finally took his eyes away from the phone still in the thief’s hands and looked up at the thief’s face. Harold Boom. 

“Boom.”

“Moon?”

Well the disguise had certainly been worth all the trouble. Back in the van, Saboo ripped off his earphones. “He’s been made.” 

“Shouldn’t we do something?” Naboo asked.

“Let’s wait it out,” Saboo said. 

“I shoulda known. This has Lance’s poncey little fingerprints all over it,” Howard snarled, back in the store. 

“Whoa there. Let’s not throw around nomenclature we’re likely to regret.” 

“I’ll throw around whatever I like sir.”

“Oh will you sir?” Harold tilted his head to the side quizzically.

“Yes I will sir.”

“Well if you’re decided sir.”

“I am sir.”

“Very well sir.” 

“Glad you understand sir.”

“I thank you sir.”

“Which one of us is talking sir.”

“I don’t rightly know sir.”

They both fell silent for a moment. 

Howard and Harold both pulled out their scripts, skimmed through them quickly and put them away again. 

Harold grabbed Howard’s arm. “You’re coming with me.”

“Yeah alright,” Howard said. 

“Really? Just like that?”

“You’re taking me exactly where I need to go,” Howard said.

Harold looked pleasantly surprised. “You  _ need  _ to go to Thomanda’s torture chamber? Hm. That’s a new one on me. Great.”

***

Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz

There was a loud thwap over Vince’s head as Madame Strovada whacked Vince’s paper with her ruler. He straightened up quickly. He’d fallen asleep on the z key. He couldn’t help it. Whenever he was bored he fell asleep. Like his brain just decided to shut down until something fun came up again. And even being electrocuted got boring after a while. Vince found himself almost wishing they’d turn up the voltage just so something interesting would happen. Maybe he would see his skeleton! How cool would that be? Maybe he could do a skeleton jumpsuit. Black with white sequins in the shape of the skeleton. He could paint one of his old pairs of black boots with boney feet. It’d be genius! Once he was out of here it was straight back to the sewing machine and-

Oh. 

Right. 

Well. It was probably a stupid idea anyway. 

“Mr. Noir. Mr. Noir! Mr. Noir!”

Madame Strovada whacked her ruler on the Electric Typewriter several times. She did not look well pleased. 

“Your mind was wandering Mr. Noir.” 

“Yeah. No wonder! I been here for like 6 hours. This is well pointless. I ain’t learnin’ to type, and I sure ain’t stayin’ here until I’m like Bart the Ghost over there.” Vince jabbed a finger at a very pasty student. 

“Hey!” Bart said. “I’m not the ghost you prick. He is.” 

He pointed at a student in the other corner making a cup float in the air and not really paying attention to what was going on, so delirious was he in his ecstasy. 

“Sorry Bart, but the point is I’m still young. I gotta well fit boyfriend. An’ I’m sort of on the first leg of a journey of self discovery right now?”

Vince had picked up the phrase from Howard who went on a journey of self discovery about every other week. They always ended up picking up each other's phrases to the point that the only people on earth that spoke their dialect were each other. 

“It don’t really make sense narratively if I die here of old age, having never learned to type.” 

Vince thought he was really making some headway with the old bird. But then her phone rang and she simply told her goons to take him to the paper shed.

Then she flicked open her cellphone and turned away. 

“Da?” She said into the phone. “...I have a class in session. Now? Nein! I book at least a week in advance. You know this. Anything I want? I can bring my instruments?...double my usual fee.”

But that was all Vince heard before he was dragged away to the paper shed. 

***

Harold Boom alerted Thomanda’s security team and soon enough Howard had been trundled off to Thomanda’s torture chamber. 

“Don’t kill me, I’ve got so much to give.” Howard sobbed.

Back in the van Saboo turned Naboo. “Does he though? Have so much to give? I’ve seen no evidence of that.”

The torture chamber they took Howard to looked quite a lot like a severe modernist basement with lots of stoneware and succulents. Cold concrete gas fireplace. More a bourgeois flat than a torture chamber. They sat him down on a recycled tin chair. He tried to stand up and powerful hands held him down. He tilted his head back to catch a glimpse of just who had been manhandling him. And instantly wished he hadn’t. The Manhandler looked like a demented circus strong man from the 30’s. With a thick black walrus mustache and a wormy grin. Demented good cheer in his eyes. 

Howard tilted his head forward quickly. Not wanting to look at the Manhandler any more than was necessary. He looked longingly at the stairs that led back up to the store and he saw a pair of high heeled jackboots at the top.

Then a very severe looking woman in a grey suit came down the stairs. She held a doctor’s bag, which Howard found incredibly ominous. 

“I can’t stay long,” she spoke with a german accent, “I cannot leave my class unattended. There is a spirited one who I am very eager to break.” Howard did not know this, but he and Vince now had a mutual acquaintance in Madame Strovada. 

“Yeah, this one isn’t going to take very long,” Lance said, finally emerging from wherever he’d been hiding. 

Howard tried to lunge for Lance but the Manhandler manhandled him back into the chair. 

“How long have you been planning this?” Howard asked.

Madame Stovada slapped him. “We will ask ze questions!” 

“Months. And it was perfect. We-”

Madame Stovada slapped Lance. “We do not answer ze questions!”

Lance said something snotty back and got slapped again but Howard wasn’t listening anymore. 

Lance had been planning this for months. But it wouldn’t have worked if Howard had been paying attention. Or maybe he had factored into Lance’s plans. Maybe Lance knew that he was a horrible boyfriend and decided to capitalize on it. 

Finally Thomanda came down the stairs and the party was complete. 

“Ah, Prick 1 and Prick 2, glad you could join us,” Howard said, earning himself another slap from Madame. 

Thomanda looked to Madame Strovada. “We appreciate you coming down on such short notice.”

“So what do you need out of him? I’ll start asking my questions.”

Thomanda shook their heads. “We don’t need anything from him. Just persuade him to keep his mouth shut.”

Madame Strovada allowed herself a small grin. “Ah. Freestyle. I can do that.” 

Howard was about to be tortured and he didn’t really care. He didn’t think he’d ever forgive himself for how he’d failed Vince, even if he did manage to fix everything in the end. He’d never forgive himself for allowing Vince’s pain to happen in the background. It was all well and good to make the grand gesture. But big gestures were a dime a dozen. There was a time when he and Vince used big gestures as currency. They could treat each other as poorly as they liked and as long as they did something big every once in a while they would keep forgiving each other. Then the treatment had gotten worse. And the gestures bigger. Vince giving away his cape. Howard taking on the herculean task of sorting Old Uncle Walt’s biros. Howard keeping Gary Numan in a cupboard. The bouncy castle. And then they fell apart. That wasn’t how they were supposed to operate anymore. They did the everyday stuff now.The listening and the supporting. It was how they’d made it this far. And he was the one who’d ruined it. He’d had to resort to another big gesture. The biggest yet. 

He could have just been there for Vince. Talked him through it. Encouraged him. Reminded him of how talented he was. But instead here he was, traipsing about town, wearing a bleeding wire in the hopes of exposing a counterfeit clothes operation, when he should have noticed Vince was hurting. And just took him into his arms. 

Howard chuckled. But there was no mirth in it. Then the laughter built. He’d finally figured out what had happened, the entire scheme, and he had no idea if it was going to make a lick of difference. Or if he’d waited too long. Maybe Vince was broken. And he was about to be tortured. And Lance Dior was behind the whole thing. So he laughed. In dry bitter yawps. 

He’d committed to the big gesture. He supposed he would see it through. 

Madame Strovada seemed unnerved by his laughter. 

“Who are you that would laugh in the face of torture?”

“No one really,” Howard said.

“Oh. Okay.”

“Well. Howard Moon. My name is Howard Moon.”

Madame Strovada shrugged. Disinterested.

“What are you laughing at?” Thomanda asked. 

“Oh, you’ll figure it out on your own. Soon enough.”

“What?”

“It’s just. I think I’ve finally got the full view of what’s happened, and you two really backed the wrong horse.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Lance yelled. 

“Alright. Let me lay it out. Stop me if I’m wrong. Lance approached you with a business idea. Sell Vince’s clothes in your shop. Buy them up cheap from Leroy on the black market. You could sell them at a huge markup and not have to pay the actual designer anywhere near what he’s owed. How am I doing so far?”

Thomanda tried to maintain their poker faces, but Howard had seen their gazes dart toward each other and knew he was right on the money. 

“Now this next part you’re going to want to pay attention to. Because it’s where you fucked up,” Howard said. “I think you saw a way to shrink your costs and put out even more volume. You’d sell Vince Noir knockoffs. You’d produce them yourself for much less and you could make as many as you wanted. Then Lance convinced you that he could come up with the designs for the knockoffs as well. And he convinced you that you needed a way to get rid of the competition. Make sure he never discovered what you were up to.”

“Do you want me to stab him? To shut him up?” Madame Strovada asked.

Thomanda both raised their hands in a “wait” gesture. Their eyes were glued to Howard.

“I swear. Everywhere I go today it is Vince Noir this. Vince Noir that. The simpleton can’t even type,” Madame muttered under her breath. “But I’ll break him. Oh yes I will.”

“What? How do you know Vince?” Howard asked.

Madame slapped Howard. “No more questions. Finish your story so I can torture you!” 

Howard nodded. He had to get Thomanda on tape admitting what they did. 

“So you stuck that flier in our mailbox. Inviting Vince to show his designs. Then you tore him to shreds. Absolutely crushed him. Just like Lance wanted.”

Lance snickered and Howard glared at him with pure disgust. Lance fell back a step. Harold reached out and squeezed Lance’s shoulder. Howard noticed this little show of affection and it nearly stole his momentum. He wasn’t going to think about how apparently even Harold Boom was a better boyfriend than he was. 

“But here was the mistake you made. Lance Dior couldn’t design his way out of a paper bag. He’s only had one idea his entire life. And it was to steal other people’s ideas. He can’t design your knockoffs for you. He doesn’t have the talent. So you killed your golden goose. Hilarious right?”

Thomanda whirled on Lance, who looked quite nervous.

“You idiot!” They screamed. 

“He’s lying!” Lance said. “He’s just-I know how to design clothes. I had a design just last week that was-”

Thomanda waited, tapping their feet. “Go on then.”

“Alright so you know firemen right? So firemen but they’re vampires and-”

“We can’t believe we ever went into business with you!” Thomanda yelled. “You’re more trouble than you’re worth. We should have just paid Noir.”

Back in the van Saboo pointed at Tony. “That’s an admission of guilt. Let’s move.” 

Lance hid behind Harold. “I’ll fix it! I’ll learn how to design. I’ll learn how to sew. How hard can it be?”

Thomanda turned to the Manhandler. “Grab that spangly berk!”

The Manhandler advanced on Lance. Harold threw a few moves at the Manhandler but he seemed unimpressed. Then Lance broke cover and ran up the stairs, abandoning Harold. Or at least he tried to. But he was swiftly caught by Saboo and Tony.

Saboo pulled out a fabric steamer. “Fashion police! No one move.” 

Tony Harrison wielded a seam ripper in one of his tentacles. “Just give us an excuse,” Tony said, “and we’ll grass you up.” 

Thomanda turned to the Manhandler. “Get us out of here!”

The Manhandler rushed forward, intent on neutralizing Saboo, who he thought to be the more dangerous of the two. That was his mistake because Tony Harrison stabbed him in the ankle with the seam ripper and he fell down the stairs and was knocked unconscious. 

“God I love my work!” Tony Harrison howled, jabbing the seam ripper in the air like a spear. 

Harold rushed forward next, he tried to wrest Lance from Saboo’s arms. Saboo twisted his finger in the air and Harold flew across the room and smashed into the succulent wall of the torture chamber. Saboo and Tony worked their way down the stairs. Saboo stepped over the Manhandler. Tony had to crawl over the Manhandler’s face. 

“Hope he don’t open his eyes,” Tony said, “Many a man ‘as been driven mad by glimpsin’ my undercarriage.” 

“Thank you Tony, for another horrifying glimpse into your anatomy,” Saboo said. 

Thomanda decided to rush Saboo as they did everything else, in unison. Saboo grinned.

“Finally. A challenge,” he said. Then he jabbed the nozzle of the steam cleaner at them menacingly. Thomanda and Saboo circled each other warily.

“Guess that leaves me n’ you gorgeous,” Tony said to Madame Strovada. He wobbled toward her, tossing the seam ripper from tentacle to tentacle. Dropping it, then picking it back up. 

Howard leapt up and grabbed Lance before he could sneak away. 

“Harrison!” Howard called. “She knows something about Vince, care to find out what it is?”

“Sounds like more fun than Glastonbury,” Tony said. “I am in!” 

Madame Strovada kicked Tony into the air like a football and made for the stairs but Tony was somehow able to change his trajectory, he later told Howard his hexagonal penis also acted as a gyroscope and Howard wished he hadn’t asked, and flew right into Madame’s face. 

He latched onto her face. “Now miss, I believe the man had a few questions for ya.” 

Madame Strovada tried to thrash away, but Tony would not be dislodged.

“Whateva you do, don’t look directly into my undercarriage! You’ll see things not meant for three dimensional beings!”

It was at this moment Madame Strovada started shrieking. 

“I think she looked,” Tony said.

“What would give you that impression Tony?” Saboo asked. As he dodged the twin clothesline Thomanda had just attempted. He popped up behind them and did a flip kick, catching both of them on the back of their heads. 

Saboo took a deep cleansing breath and grinned. “I do so crave the Crunch. And you two are almost a worthy opponent.”

Tony disengaged from Madame Strovada’s face and plopped down to the floor. Madame stared into the middle distance. Her face a grotesque rictus of unspeakable terror. 

Feeling a bit stupid, Howard approached her. “Ma’am? What do you know about Vince?”

A bit of drool dripped down her chin.

Howard glanced down at Tony. “Maybe we could use your…”

“Undercarriage.”

“Yeah thanks. Your. Undercarriage. To hypnotize her. You know. Go straight to her subconscious. Vince hasn’t been answering his phone all day and I’ve got a feeling she knows why.” Howard kept one arm firmly grasped on Lance’s arm. He scoped up Tony with his other arm and pointed him, undercarriage first, at Madame Strovada.

Within moments she was under Tony’s thrall.

“Alright,” Tony said. “Ask your questions.”

“How do you know Vince?” Howard asked. 

“Worst student I’ve ever had. But I will break him. Oh yes I will.” Madame Strovada said, her voice soft and dreamy despite her harsh words. 

“Student. What do you teach?” Howard said.

“Typing.”

“Vince is taking a typing class?”

“He is failing a typing class. The Electric Typewriter didn’t teach him. Maybe the paper shed will.”

“Is he in the paper shed right now?”

A horrifying smile bloomed across Madame’s lips. “Oh yes.”

Howard quickly got the location of the typing school just as Saboo finally stopped toying with Thomanda and handily handcuffed them to each other. 

“Have you two got this situation handled?” Howard said. “I’ve got to go get Vince.” 

“Yes. Go,” Saboo said. “This is a fashion crime scene now. Best get out before backup arrives, otherwise you’ll be stuck here all night.” 

Howard handed Lance over to Saboo and ran up the stairs and out of the shop. 

***

Vince didn’t know how long he’d been in the paper shed. When the goons had first opened the door to the shed he’d started laughing. It was just a big shed full of crumpled paper. But he’d quickly stopped laughing when they tossed him in, on top of the mountain of paper and he got five or six papercuts. Then they’d shut the door. Locking him inside. He crawled to the door, sustaining more papercuts as he went, he banged on the door. 

“Hey! Let me out!” He yelled. 

He kept banging on the door, but no one came.

That had been at least an hour ago. 

Well this was great. Why not. When your luck runs out, it runs out all the way. And apparently he’d been living his entire life based on luck and the pity of others. It was pathetic. He didn’t know how Howard stood to be with someone so thick. Who wasn’t good at anything and had to be treated like a child. 

Finally it all just got to be too much for Vince. And oh lovely. He was crying like a child as well. He’d been trying to be tough. Once he’d left Thomanda’s shope he hadn’t cried once. Part of the reason he hadn’t told Howard sooner. Because he didn’t want to cry. And he knew he would. So he’d tried to do what he assumed proper grown-ups do. Picked a course of action and stuck with it. Move on. Find something else he could do. But he couldn’t do anything else. He didn’t want to do anything else. He loved making clothes. It had made him so happy and he’d let Thomanda steal it away from him. 

He loved fashion more than he loved almost anything in the world. It was what inspired him. It made him come alive and look forward to every day. It was his favorite thing. And it always would be. 

Maybe he was naive. Maybe he was terrible. Maybe everyone his entire life had lied to him about his abilities in an effort not to hurt his feelings. Maybe none of that mattered. 

So what if everyone was just being nice? He’d make clothes for himself. He’d make music and art for himself. He’d be happy anyway. He was the sunshine kid. And he had Howard. And that made him double sunshine. 

For the first time in nearly two weeks, Vince felt like himself. He had to get out of this shed. 

He threw his shoulder against the door several times, then screamed some more, hoping against hope that someone would hear him. 

Then suddenly the door whipped open. It took Vince’s eyes a moment to adjust to the sudden brightness. But his rescuer was-

“Howard!” Vince screamed, then he launched himself out of the shed and into Howard’s arms. 

Howard swung Vince around. His face buried in Vince’s neck. 

Finally he set Vince down. “Vince! Please don’t get rid of your clothes. And your sewing machines.”

“Howard-” Vince meant to tell Howard that he didn’t have anything to worry about. That he was going to keep his things. 

“I unraveled it Vince. I unraveled the whole thing.”

“You unraveled what?”

“A plot. A dastardly plot against you.” 

When Howard got over excited he tended to start talking like a gothic hero. 

Vince smiled, shook his head. “What you on about?”

“Thomanda didn’t hate your designs. In fact they liked them enough to steal all your ideas and sell knockoffs.”

Vince shook his head. “No way. That don’t make any sense. How’d they even hear about me?”

***

Howard then said the two words that would make the entire situation abundantly clear. “Lance. Dior.” 

Vince’s face pulled into a snarl. As it always did when Lance Dior was mentioned. 

“Oh that twat,” Vince growled. “I should have known. I’m gonna kill him.”

“Don’t you worry about that Vince. He’s in custody with the fashion police now. Thanks to a little sting operation we ran.” 

“You worked with the fashion police? But you’re fashion public enemy number 1. They’ve got that sketch of you down at the fashion police station. How’d you manage to work with them and not get carted off yourself?”

“Let’s just say I have an in with the boys in cerulean.” 

Vince was smiling. This seemed to be a good sign. Howard was feeling cautiously optimistic that his big gesture had actually worked.

“So you’re...not going to get rid of all your things?”

***

Howard looked so sweet and worried. All Vince could do was giggle a bit then lean forward and kiss him.

“Nope. I’m keeping them. I realized that I love my clothes. And I still would. Even if no one else did.”

A look of pure relief washed over Howard’s face. Then he leaned forward and kissed Vince again. Then pulled him into another tight hug. 

“I’m so sorry Vince.”

“For what?”

“I wasn’t there for you. I said that I would be. But you were hurting and I just didn’t notice. I’m supposed to fix things before they get this bad. Instead I just let you get worse and worse until you left the house in a hoodie.” 

Vince glanced down. He’d forgotten he was wearing it. And he instantly wanted it gone. 

Vince stuck his arms out. “Give us your shirt.”

Without hesitation Howard whipped off his shirt and gave it to Vince. Vince was surprised. There was usually a bit more back and forth. Howard  _ really  _ must be feeling guilty. 

Vince took off the hoodie and put on Howard’s shirt. Howard held his hand out for the hoodie. Vince shook his head.

“No way. If see you in this hoodie I’ll never be able to have sex with you again.”

“Oh so I’ll just walk around shirtless will I?” Howard grumbled.

“Don’t worry. I’ll keep all the girls away from ya, once they see how dead sexy you are,” Vince said. 

Howard gave him a wan smile. 

“What is it? Everything turned out great,” Vince said. 

***

Sure. Yes. Everything was back to normal. But he still couldn’t shake his feeling of guilt at not having caught all this sooner. 

“I’m just not very good at this,” Howard said.

Vince looked honestly baffled.

“Good at what?”

“Being a boyfriend. Being your boyfriend. I’m always making a mess of things.” 

He was. He was terrible at giving gifts. He was impatient when Vince was getting ready. He always had to work really hard to listen, it didn’t just come naturally. And, case in point, he relied too much on big gestures to fix things when he invariably fucked them up again. 

Vince grabbed Howard’s hand. “It’s not your job to fix things for me Howard. It’s your job to support me.”

“But I didn’t do that eith-”

“Yeah. You bollocksed it up a bit this time. But I ain’t some saint. We’re both pretty self-centered. We’re gettin’ better though. I mean look Howard, look what you did for me. You unraveled an entire conspiracy  _ and  _ wore cool clothes. Just to make me feel better. You don’t always have to fix things for me. But it means a lot that you want to. You’re an amazing boyfriend. I love you Howard.”

“Love you too, little man,” Howard said. 

“Now can we please go home?” 

“Surely I thought you’d want a long leisurely stroll through the park. Maybe swing by Hmmmm? And see Thomanda and Lance being loaded into the back of a paddy wagon.”

“That does sound quite good,” Vince said, grinning. 

“I thought it might.” Howard cupped Vince’s face in his hands and pulled him into a deep kiss.

When they broke apart Vince pulled Howard’s hand up to his lips and kissed it. 

“Thanks Howard. You always know just what to say.” 


End file.
